Anybody's House

The deceased shall come forth by day, purified after death

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You know the feeling of coming home,

stepping out of your worn street shoes and

leaving the dust and dirt at the door,

twisting the familiar knob, lock, key

as you feel the familiar chip of baby-blue

paint and wood leave residue

on your hands, heart. My house has

followed me here, to the outer reaches

of living. A stretch as long as horizons

and slanted shines of sunlight greets me

before I reach the windows and doors—

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home topping the ragged cliffs and waves

and sand of eternity. The line is linked by people,

clutching each other’s hands. Family. Friends.

People I don’t have a name to but who I know

as well as I know the creases and folds

of my own two hands. They dazzle like

stars, a glittering trail pointing to the

familiar front door. The house of my

ancestors’ ancestors. A house built not on bones,

but hoped-for dreams, little moments

and quiet kindness. My wife and I will

hold hands in the stairwell again.

My brother and I will play hide-and

-seek in between the fluffy couch pillows.

My daughter will take her first steps

on the pale kitchen tiles, bright as

fresh, speckled farm eggs nesting

on the cool countertop.

Look through the windows—

the lights are all on.

Someone is home.